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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26029573">A Garden of Infinite Possibility</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eienvine/pseuds/Eienvine'>Eienvine</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Thor (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Fix-It, Post-Thor (2011), Sifki Week 2020, don't get your hopes up, the Sifki is so mild here</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:21:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,093</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26029573</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eienvine/pseuds/Eienvine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki lets himself fall from the Rainbow Bridge, and wakes to find himself in a garden at the foot of Yggdrasil, in the company of the Norns.</p><p>“We have brought you here to give you a choice,” they tell him. “Few of your kind are given such a privilege. Choose wisely.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Loki/Sif (Marvel)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Garden of Infinite Possibility</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Sifki Week 2020 day 6: Fix-it Friday.</p><p>This story was inspired by two short stories: “Roses by Moonlight” by Patricia C. Wrede and, to a lesser extent, “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” by Ambrose Bierce. The Norns in this story are based much more on Norse mythology than on Marvel comics portrayals of these figures, and are also heavily influenced by portrayals of the Fates in other European cultures.</p><p>The Sifki in this is extremely light—definitely not the main thrust of the story. If you were hoping for something more romantic, I apologize. :D</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>. . . . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could have done it, Father! I could have done it! For you. For all of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loki stares up at the man he was raised to love, pleading, hoping, beseeching, but Odin’s face is impassive and unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is barely audible over the rushing waters at the edge of Asgard. “No, Loki.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And something in Loki breaks. Only half-consciously, his grip on the spear loosens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Loki, no,” Thor growls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loki falls into blackness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes drift closed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loki’s eyes open in a sunlit rose garden, surrounded by birdsong and the gentle babble of a brook. His hands go to his chest, but his leather armor has been replaced by a linen tunic.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Am I dead?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He had expected to be, after letting go of the spear, but still, his despair deepens; apparently, in the end, he didn’t truly want . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. He didn’t want a lot of things, and yet, here he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t mean to speak aloud, but he must have done, because someone answers. “You are not dead yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He whirls around to see three women watching him, their faces obscured by their hooded robes so he cannot see them clearly. But one is hunched with age; one has golden hair cascading from under her hood; and when the third moves, he thinks he just catches the edge of a pair of wings on her back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Recognition steals over him, along with a prickle of fear, temporarily banishing the anger and anguish that still echo through him from that confrontation on the Rainbow Bridge. Now that he knows to look for it, he can see, faintly outlined in the sky above the rose garden, a great white tree, impossibly large, filling the whole dome of the heavens. He has heard many tales of three women who live in the roots of Yggdrasil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks back at his companions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what we are,” says the old one: not a question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” Loki makes a careful bow. “My ladies.” His expression is calm, but his mind is racing. These are the Norns; he has never met them himself, despite a near miss during one of Thor’s foolish quests, but the tales describe them clearly. He knows not whether to be fearful; the Norns are capricious, sometimes kind and sometimes cruel, as likely to bless a newborn babe as they are to inflict an innocent man with a terrible disease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, they said he was not dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How came I to be here?” he asks, deciding to be bold, for his three companions are saying nothing. “And why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We brought you,” says the winged one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As for why, it was your mother’s wish,” says the golden-haired one. “She was a votaress of our order, in her youth. We were inclined to hear her supplication.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She is not my mother,” he says automatically, as he remembers the revelations of the last few days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Strange,” says the old one, “for I seem to recall her rocking a wee Jotun babe to sleep, night after night. Drying tears, soothing hurts. Wearing flower crowns in place of her royal diadem, for no other reason than that her little Loki had woven them for her. What call you that, if not being a mother?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loki shifts uncomfortably and says nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are a fool, boy,” says the winged one. “Were it up to me, I would leave you to the fate you have chosen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps we shall start there,” says the golden-haired one. “The fate he has chosen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gestures toward a spot below Loki’s eyeline, and he glances down to see that a rosebush has sprung up at his feet: all wicked thorns like daggers and leaves so dark as to be nearly black, and growing on top, a single rose, blood red, and larger and more luxuriant than any rose he has ever seen before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is this?” he asks, a little more defiantly than is probably wise, given who he’s speaking to. But then, he’s just lost everything; what more could they do to him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The future you have chosen,” says the old one. “We are giving you the chance to see the threads of fate as we do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is how you see the future?” he asks, surprised. He has never heard of the Norns being associated with roses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could not withstand our ways of seeing,” says the winged one derisively. “It would destroy your mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is an illusion,” says the golden-haired one, waving an elegant hand at the rose garden around them. “A way to let a mortal access our powers, safely and comfortably.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks at them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Smell the rose, boy,” commands the old one. Power crackles through her words, and instinctively and obediently he bends down and inhales the red rose’s heady scent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I could have done it, Father! I could have done it! For you. For all of us.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No, Loki.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Loki falls into blackness.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He awakes somewhere he does not recognize: a place of darkness and jagged rocks. He is imprisoned and tortured by strange and ominous figures for he knows not how long. In time he meets their leader, a mad Titan called Thanos, who stokes his hatred of Asgard and his family and then sets him on Midgard, to subjugate it with the help of a mind-controlling scepter. What Thanos neglects to mention is that the scepter affects Loki too, turning his anger to madness.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>By the time he comes back to himself, he has been defeated (thoroughly and painfully) and is now in the dungeons of Asgard, an object of pity and derision. He does not bother trying to explain that his mind may not have been his own on Midgard; who would listen? Besides, the anger and resentment that caused him to agree to destroy Midgard: those were his own.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tragedy strikes when Dark Elves attack Asgard, and Loki thoughtlessly directs one of the attackers to a certain staircase; as a result, Frigga is killed, and Loki will never forgive himself for it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s a few years of peace, where Loki, having faked his own death, impersonates Odin and takes his throne. He’s happy, or at least he’s not as unhappy as he has been (he is lonely, though, for Frigga is dead, Thor is gone, and he’s had to keep the Warriors Three at arm’s length and send away Sif altogether, for if anyone were to see through his ruse, it would be them). (Not that it matters, for if any knew he was still living and wearing his father’s crown, surely they would hate him and try to destroy him.) But then Odin dies, his loving words of farewell leaving Loki rattled and regretful.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hela, Odin’s unknown eldest daughter, attacks Asgard, and Thor and Loki are stranded on a distant planet; they must band together to escape. Faced with the destruction of everything he has ever known and loved, Loki finally admits to himself that he does love it, and that he regrets all he has done to reach this point. But it’s too late: most of the population of Asgard is killed, including the Warriors Three, and the realm itself is destroyed in the battle with Hela. (At least Sif survived, he tells himself.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>As the survivors attempt to escape, they are attacked by the mad Titan Thanos, who kills half of the remaining Asgardians. Thanos threatens to kill Thor if Loki does not give him the Tesseract. Loki, knowing this ends with half the universe dead, tries to attack Thanos. Thanos is not fooled, and Loki dies, strangled by Thanos while Thor’s horrified screams ring in his ears.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Then all is blackness.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What in the Nine Realms?” Loki demands as he comes back to himself. The vision was so alarming that, for the moment, he quite forgets the stormy darkness that has consumed him these last few days. “What did I just see?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is the future you have chosen,” replies the golden-haired one placidly. “If you continue on this path of anger and hate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t choose that,” Loki retorts. “I don’t want that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wanting has little to do with it,” sneers the winged one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when the old one speaks, her voice holds sympathy, and Loki feels what little of his anger still remained slip away. “You can choose your actions. You cannot choose the consequences.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loki looks at his three companions, one at a time, his eyes desperately seeking a face beneath those robes. But they remain as inscrutable as ever. “What is this all about?” he demands finally, agitation and confusion making his voice sharp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have brought you here to give you a choice,” says the golden-haired one, her voice ringing with authority. “Few of your kind are given such a privilege. Choose wisely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That rose showed you the path you are currently on,” says the old one. “But you can step off that path at any time. The rest of the garden shows other paths you could take, other threads we could weave into your tapestry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gestures to a nearby rosebush, and Loki, still in awe of their power, obediently makes his way to it and bends to smell a delicate yellow rose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I could have done it, Father! I could have done it! For you. For all of us.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No, Loki.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Loki falls into blackness.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But only for a second; he is a sorcerer, after all, and does not need to be at the mercy of the wormhole beneath him. With a gesture and an incantation, he vanishes and reappears on a far-flung planet, across the galaxy from Asgard, a place he knows this place from a previous quest.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He becomes a sorcerer for hire. It does not make him wealthy—there are few wealthy residents in this distant system—and he gets lonely on occasion, for the local residents use him when they need him but are otherwise not inclined to trust the outsider. But he is comfortable, and he is left alone—never mortified by unflattering comparisons to Thor.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>None from Asgard contact him; he must have successfully hidden himself from Heimdall’s view.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Or so he thinks, until a messenger arrives from Asgard: the Dark Elves are attacking Asgard, and Prince Thor seeks his brother’s help.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Part of Loki’s heart leaps in response. But the rest has been twisted by resentment in the two years since Loki learned the truth of his birth, and he turns away from the messenger.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Thor is no longer my brother,” he says. “Asgard is no longer my people. You are wasting your time.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The messenger leaves. Loki tells himself he’s glad of it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the vision fades, the feeling it prompted—of pleasure and sorrow and longing—lingers on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Impossible,” Loki informs his three companions when he has come back to himself. “If Thor knew where I was, he would have hunted me down. He would have killed me. He has no love for Jotuns.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you think your brother means you harm,” says the winged one with derision in her tone, “you are even stupider than I thought.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old one’s tone is kinder when she adds, “And if you think that Prince Thor holds you in contempt because of your birth, you do not know him as well as you think you do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loki stares at them. And then he turns away, his heart sinking down to his shoes. If they speak the truth—if he had known—Odin is still the great fool Loki has always thought, but perhaps if Thor—and of course Frigga—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He begins to fear he has made a great mistake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Or, rather, some tiny part of him—a part he makes a habit of ignoring—has thought all along that he is making a great mistake, and now it is loud and insistent, refusing to be shoved away out of sight.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, something happens that has not occurred in many years: Loki’s better angels briefly gain control of his heart and his mind. “You brought me here to give me a choice?” he clarifies. “To let me choose a future? That’s what these roses show?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three nod in unison.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could you send me back in time?” he asks. “If that was what I chose? Let me try the last few decades again? I could do better this time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The golden-haired one is shaking her head, slowly and ponderously. “That is not within our power,” she says. “A few seconds, perhaps, but not decades. You cannot go back and change what has been done. You can only start from where you are, and attempt to do better from this point on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loki’s brief moment on the side of goodness and light is shattered. “That is easy for you to say,” he snarls, forgetting for a moment that it is not wise to antagonize such powerful beings. “You sit here, safe at the roots of Yggdrasil, while the rest of us suffer under the cruel fates you weave for us. Who are you to lecture me on how I ought to behave? You who have never suffered, and have dealt me such a grievous hand? I am a victim here, attempting only to react to your cruelty as best I can. You are pitiless.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instantly his indignation is replaced with fear—has he gone too far? Provoked them too much? But his three companions do not seem angry. In fact, when the golden-haired one speaks, her voice is full of compassion and a gravity as heavy as Yggdrasil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The children of the Nine Realms have always misunderstood us,” she says. “You Asgardians most of all. You picture us as heartless forces who hold a mortal’s life entirely in our hands, who bless and curse according to our whims.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rose garden before his eyes does not disappear. But somehow, Loki finds himself also looking at skeins upon skeins of colored yarn, and a loom, impossibly large, and three sets of ghostly pale hands passing a golden thread between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is true that we add certain threads to the cloth of each mortal’s life,” the golden-haired one goes on. “Accident and disease, but good fortune and unexpected blessings as well. And then there are threads that come into being simply because of the natural laws of the world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can choose your actions,” the old one says again. “You cannot choose the consequences.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The golden-haired one continues. “But most of what we weave are the threads you hand us: your life-changing decisions and your small, everyday choices, as well as how you elect to respond to the unexpected events we send your way. You cannot control the pattern of your life entirely. But you control it far more than you seem to realize, young Odinson.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your discovery of your birth was a blow,” acknowledges the winged one. “And we know you have always felt inferior to your brother and ignored by your father. But you have chosen to focus on those facts, and to react with anger and resentment. You have ignored the love of your family and friends, especially your mother. You have ignored what a blessing it was that your father rescued you from certain death in an icy Jotun wasteland, and brought you to a blessed and beautiful land, to be raised with comfort and privilege, to be son to the most powerful king in the Nine Realms. That he fed and clothed and educated and loved you. If the tapestry of your life has taken a turn for the dark of late, that is your doing, not ours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loki stares at the three women a long time, his heart and mind a riot of resentment and fear and hope and longing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cannot respond to them right now. So to distract himself and them, he strides into the rose garden and picks a bush at random, smelling a bright yellow rose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Xandarian?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Loki glances up at the bartender, whose green skin marks him as a local, and shakes his head. “Jotun,” he says, with a bitter little smile.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The man grunts. “Never heard of ‘em.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Well, I destroyed most of them,” Loki mutters, examining the glass in his hands. Zen-Whoberi has some very fine alcoholic beverages. A little strong, though; he should probably slow down.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Instead he downs the glass in a single gulp.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The bartender watches him with a sardonic lift of his eyebrow. “If you pass out, I’ll have you dragged out and dumped in the gutter,” he says conversationally.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Loki waves a dismissive hand. “I’ve had worse,” he says, even as he notices that the hand he’s waving is not entirely steady.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The bartender tilts his head. “You strike me as a man who’s running from something,” he observes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You strike me as a man who should mind his own business,” says Loki, his speech increasingly slurred. “I came here to get too drunk to think, not to spill my life story.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m serious,” the bartender says, rolling his eyes. “Gutter.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He does seem serious. Which is too bad, because Loki’s getting tottery on his stool; he might indeed pass out. The Zen-Whoberians can brew some seriously strong alcohol.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Good. Then he’ll stick around for a while. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alcoholism and dissipation,” Loki mutters. “What a delightful future to look forward to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every future he has seen so far has been so sad; surely there must be a flower here that would bring him joy. So, determined to find something better, he stalks to a bush of tiny white roses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The forest is especially beautiful at sunset, with the golden light slanting through the trees and painting the cottage yellow. The birds and woodland creatures are making their way to their snug homes, while the creatures of the night awake and begin their nocturnal dance: bats swooping overhead while owls chuckle and moan like benevolent ghosts.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Loki turns his face upward to the fading sunset and breathes deeply. The air smells fresh and wild here, in a way it never did in Asgard, and the silence is good for his mind.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His reverie is broken when his stomach rumbles, and with a smile, he makes his way inside the cottage. A quick spell lights the lamps and the fireplace (most of the seiðr he does these days is domestic or protective in nature), and the cottage becomes a cozy little sanctuary, bright and warm in a sea of encroaching night.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It is quick work to slice some bread and cheese, and then he sets a kettle to boil for tea and sits down in the chair before the fire.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This is a good life, he reminds himself: quiet, safe, calm. And mostly he believes his own claim.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(His eyes dart around the cottage, though: one chair before the fire. One plate. One cup. A narrow bed, comfortable but only big enough for one.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The whistle of the tea kettle pulls him from his reflection.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Still. This is a good life.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loki stares at the little white rose a long time, the peace of that vision settling down into his bones. That is more of a temptation than he would have expected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you have chosen,” comes the voice of the golden-haired one, “you need simply to pick that rose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loki stares at it a long time, and then shakes his head. “I’ll keep looking,” he says, and strides out into the garden, determined to see what other roses are out there. There must be one that takes him far away from Asgard and lets him live in peace, but when wherein he isn’t so lonely, and can live in the luxury to which he is accustomed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he memorizes the location of that cottage rose, just in case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the future, he will never be able to say quite how long he spent in that garden, be it minutes or days or weeks. He sees himself live a thousand lives: rich. Poor. Peaceful. Tragic. He sees himself as a powerful sorcerer renowned the galaxy over, and as a humble hedgewitch in a tiny village. He sees himself as a common mercenary, just barely getting by, and as a captain in the Nova Corps. He lives in disguise on Sovereign, and under his own name on A'askavariia. He is conscripted and brainwashed by the Kree, and lives in peace and harmony among the inhabitants of Arago-7. He is alone; he has friends; he takes lovers. He is killed young by disease, and he wanders alone through the galaxy on a tiny ship until he dies of old age.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But these visions all have two things in common: he never returns to the Nine Realms. And he never sees anyone he knows from Asgard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, he cannot help it; he turns to the three figures who have watched him in silence all this time. “Why?” he demands. “Why am I never in Asgard? Why am I never even in contact with Asgard?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You left Asgard,” comes the golden-haired one’s simple answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With extreme prejudice,” mutters the winged one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is where your future is pointing at present,” says the old one. “Your choices have led you away from Asgard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course. That makes sense. And isn’t that what he wanted? Isn’t that why he let go of the spear?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he cannot help opening his mouth to ask a further question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three wait patiently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closes it again. His pride, his stubbornness, will not allow him to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three hear his question anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is not outside the realm of possibility for you to have a future in Asgard,” says the old one. “I recommend you try that bush, over there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gestures to a spot at the back of the garden, where the old dry stones of what he thinks used to be a fountain are overgrown with lovely, luxuriant leaves. No bloom peeks through that foliage, though, and he shoots a quizzical look at the old one, then wanders around the fountain, carefully examining every nook and cranny.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tells himself it is only curiosity that drives him to seek out a rose on this plant; after all, he has done everything possible to burn bridges with Asgard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(He lies.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There! On the far side, near the top, a single bloom: quite small, and the most unappealing, dingy off-white color. To reach it requires that he climb on the edge of the fountain, and this he does carefully, certain that the whole thing is going to crumble away beneath him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally he reaches the flower, and he leans forward, and closes his eyes, and inhales the delicate scent of the rose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Happy birthday,” says Frigga, and envelops Loki in a warm hug.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Loki allows himself to bask in the comfort and happiness of being embraced by his mother, then pulls back to smile at her. She’s looking older these days, but then, they all are. Still, her smile is the warm one he remembers from his youth, centuries and centuries ago.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Are you nearly ready?” Thor asks, entering the drawing room. He, too, looks older, and there’s a wisdom and a peace in his expression that would surprise those who knew him in his youth. He grins on seeing Loki. “Here’s the birthday boy,” he says, and punches his brother cheerfully in the shoulder.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You make me sound like a child,” says Loki, rolling his eyes. But he’s smiling, and that smile grows when Thor wraps his arms around him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’ll always be my little brother,” the crown prince informs him, and now it’s Loki punching Thor in the shoulder.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Odin enters then, leaning on a cane. The passage of time has hit him the most; he has grown weak, his skin thin and papery, and he must enter the Odinsleep often.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Still, there is strength in the old man’s hands as he cups Loki’s face. “My son,” he says warmly. “Happy birthday.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Thank you, Father,” whispers Loki, and leans forward to embrace him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“So this is why we cannot start the feast!” comes a familiar voice, and Loki turns to see Fandral entering, flanked by Hogun. “You are all standing about in here. How am I to flirt with all the young ladies if we don’t join the festivities?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hogun rolls his eyes. “Have you ever considered pursuing ladies closer to your own age?” he asks. “Your philandering is becoming unseemly.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fandral just laughs and shakes Loki’s hand heartily; of the Warriors Three, he’s always been the closest to the younger prince.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Speaking of people who’ve actually settled down,” says Hogun, “Volstagg is already in the Great Hall with his family, along with my family. He says he looks forward to seeing you all.” He claps Loki on the shoulder. “Happy birthday,” he says somberly, because time and a family of his own have not taught the dour warrior cheerfulness.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Thank you,” Loki says.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh, but where are—” Frigga begins, but she’s interrupted by the doors opening yet again and a tiny, dark-haired figure pattering into the room.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Father!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Loki’s face breaks into a broad grin, and he drops to his knees so the little boy can run into his arms. “I was wondering where you’d gotten to, Ullr,” he says. “I thought perhaps you’d been eaten by a bilgesnipe.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The boy leans back so he can look into his eyes. “Uncle Fandral said he fought a bilgesnipe in the gardens once,” he says in that serious, practical way of his. “But then Uncle Hogun said Uncle Fandral made that up, and there’s no bilgesnipes at the palace.” He tilts his head. “Is that true?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Perhaps tomorrow we shall have to explore the gardens and see for ourselves,” Loki suggests, rising to his feet with his son still wrapped in his arms. “Now, where is your mother?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Trying to keep up with her enthusiastic son,” comes a voice from outside the doors, and Loki turns to see Sif entering, dressed in a shimmering dress of silver silk. Like the rest of them, age has marked her face, but she’s still as beautiful as the day Loki met her, a thousand years ago.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sorry we’re late,” she tells the room. “Ullr had to try on five different outfits before he was satisfied.” She shoots Loki a sardonic look. “He takes after you, in that way.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Loki just gives her and their son a proud grin, and Sif rolls her eyes fondly and greets him with a kiss. “Happy birthday,” she smiles.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Good, we’re all here,” Thor says. “Shall we go to the feast?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loki comes back to himself and remembers that he is perched precariously atop a crumbling fountain. Still, despite the fear of imminent collapse and injury, he cannot bring himself to move. That last vision is still ringing through his head and his heart, and he cannot bring himself to break the spell it has cast over him: the love. The peace. The joy. The sense of belonging. His wife. His son.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes several moments before he’s willing to shatter the enchantment and climb down from the edge of the fountain, and by then, reality has settled back in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Impossible,” he informs the three hooded figures watching him. “All of it. Impossible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You doubt our power?” The winged one sounds incredulous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have no doubt you are powerful, my lady,” he says. “But you must have misunderstood something. After what I have done, there is no way that they would accept me back so easily.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It would not be easy,” the golden-haired one corrects him. “It would be a long and difficult road to walk. But it would be possible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loki’s breath catches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They say it would be possible. And if anyone would know, it would be them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a long few moments, he is divided against himself: on the one side, pride and anger and resentment; the feeling he still has that Odin has never been fair to him and that Thor is a fool who does not deserve the adulation that has always been thrown at him; the despair and unworthiness he feels when he thinks of his ignominious origins, which make him want to hide away from everyone who knows the truth; the fear that no one could ever forgive him and that he has burned all bridges past repair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the other side, hope and yearning and regret; the desolation he feels at the thought of never seeing his mother again; the longing he is surprised to find himself already feeling for Asgard, for the familiar walls of the palace, for the sight of the Warriors Three and his brother smiling at him from across a table; his curiosity (and hope) as to whether Sif could ever truly care for him so; the sense he has, growing ever stronger, that this started out as a mere prank to prove Thor’s unworthiness to take the throne, but now it has grown far beyond anything he ever intended or wanted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How?” he demands finally, the hopeful side of him winning out. “How could it be possible?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You return to Asgard,” says the winged one. “You turn yourself in and go to prison to pay for your crimes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you do, your mother and brother could take up your cause, and in time convince your father that you are truly repentant and rehabilitated,” the old one continues. “Your father would be glad, for while the demands of the law insisted that he lock you up, the demands of his heart would leave him pleased to let you free again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could spend time on parole,” the golden-haired one concludes. “You could do a great deal of civic service to atone for what you did. People could slowly come to trust you again. Your old friends could return to you. The shieldmaiden could once again see in you the man she once thought she could care for. You could become a valued prince of the realm once more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Amazing, as I haven’t been valued for years,” Loki mutters, but it’s a knee-jerk reaction, not true derision. The truth is that he wants to believe that what they’re saying could be true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The truth is that the last few days have been an absolute whirlwind. He has plotted and schemed and done things he knows he shouldn’t have. But things spiraled out of control, especially with the unexpected revelation of his true origins, and events strayed from Loki’s script a long while back; he has spent much of these tumultuous last few days just reacting to each new event. And now that he has time, here in this garden, to step back and ponder, he has to admit to himself that he never wanted it to go this far.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He never wanted to turn his back on his family and his people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And if he could, he would go back and stop himself from letting the frost giants into Asgard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Admitting this to himself makes his shoulders slump: a small but malicious part of him is berating him for his lack of conviction, but most of his being is filled with a mix of sorrow and relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not that I’ve decided,” he begins. “But if I did, all I’d have to do is pick this flower? Break this stem? And I’d have the future I saw?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not nearly so easy as that,” says the golden-haired one. “Nothing is certain. Nothing is guaranteed. Picking the flower only lets us get you started down the right road.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You still have to make the right choices,” says the winged one. “Accept your punishment uncomplainingly. Undergo a change of heart. Your repentance and regret must be sincere, not feigned simply in the name of personal gain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Release your anger and pride,” adds the old one. “Rebuild burned bridges. Renew your relationships with your family. Show your heart more fearlessly, to friends and family and especially to the shieldmaiden, if you expect her to care for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then,” says the golden-haired one, “if you do all this, and if fate is on your side—and we will be—you may achieve your vision.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loki hesitates for a long time, looking around the garden at the millions of lives he could live, thinking about what he left behind and what he has to return to. He thinks of the carefully couched phrases of the Norns, and hears what they’re not saying: it’s possible he’ll do everything he should and still not get what he wants, because it is possible he’s burned too many bridges and he cannot force others to feel the way he wants them to. But then he thinks of that chilling vision of the future that he saw in that first blood-red rose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he nods. “I want to try.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The golden-haired one gestures, and a pair of scissors materializes in his hand. He climbs up onto the fountain again, seeking the single rose there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hesitates briefly to look at his three companions. “Thank you, my ladies,” he says, with a half bow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As one, they incline their hooded heads graciously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Loki reaches out and clips the stem of the off-white rose. The stem of the rose grows thick and smooth in his hand . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . until it is his spear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Loki, no,” Thor growls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loki’s hand instinctively tightens around the handle of the spear, and he looks up to see Thor above him, his expression distressed; above Thor is Odin, gazing down on his sons with a look that Loki called “placid” the first time he saw it, but that he now sees is troubled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Loki, we can figure this out,” Thor insists, and Loki sees genuine worry and love in that face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regret and anger and affection and resentment and hope crash over him, and he forces himself to nod. “Pull me up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a surge of strength Loki had not thought the old man capable of, Odin hauls them both up over the broken edge of the Rainbow Bridge. The two princes of Asgard lay side by side on the bridge a moment, both panting with exertion, and then Thor tips his head over to look at Loki, his expression wary but hopeful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loki can’t meet those hopeful eyes, so he hauls himself to his feet. But here, he can’t meet Odin’s eyes, and so he looks at the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He searches for the right words to explain but can find none. So he finally says, “I am prepared to face whatever punishment you feel necessary, Fa—Odin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Odin reaches out and puts a hand on Loki’s shoulder. Loki looks up in surprise to see the wily old Allfather looking grave but kind. “Punishment there must be, my son,” he agrees. “But Loki, I would still have you call me ‘Father.’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loki can do nothing but nod mutely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Odin conjures a pair of cuffs from mid-air. Loki recognizes them; they will block his magical abilities. “You do understand why I must use these?” the Allfather asks. “Until you can face trial? Justice, and the laws of our land—they matter, even for my sons. It would be the same for Thor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loki nods and holds his arms out for Odin to cuff them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the door of the palace, they are met by Sif and the Warriors Three. All look positively thunderous to see Loki, but when Odin explains that he willingly turned himself in, to face punishment for his crimes, their stern expressions soften a little. Loki dares to meet Sif’s eye for a moment; her expression is forbidding, but she gives him the tiniest nod. He supposes she thinks it honorable, for him to be willing to be held accountable for what he’s done.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His meeting with Frigga, just inside the palace, is much more welcoming; the queen weeps softly as she embraces her younger son, and Loki, thinking what the Norns said about how she has always been his mother, feels tears prick at his own eyes as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pulls back to look at him, a question in her eyes, and he knows her well enough to guess that she’s wondering if the Norns answered her supplication.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives her a tiny nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs. “My son,” she says quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He answers almost silently. “Mother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come, my wife,” says Odin. “There is much to discuss.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Asgardian royal family makes its way through the halls of the palace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Loki finds that he is not afraid of what lies before him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>fin</span>
</p>
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